Poems, Lyrics, & Short Stories I Like

Discussion in 'The Writing Gallery' started by Spidey, Jan 31, 2017.

  1. Spidey

    Spidey Should've Reinstated The Fox
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    (Anyone can contribute)

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    "Desert Rose" by Sting

    I dream of rain
    I dream of gardens in the desert sand
    I wake in pain
    I dream of love as time runs through my hand
    I dream of fire
    These dreams are tied to a horse that will never tire
    And in the flames
    Her shadows play in the shape of a man's desire
    This desert rose
    Each of her veils, a secret promise
    This desert flower
    No sweet perfume ever tortured me more than this
    And as she turns
    This way she moves in the logic of all my dreams
    This fire burns
    I realise that nothing's as it seems
    I dream of rain
    I dream of gardens in the desert sand
    I wake in pain
    I dream of love as time runs through my hand
    I dream of rain
    I lift my gaze to empty skies above
    I close my eyes, this rare perfume
    Is the sweet intoxication of her love
    I dream of rain
    I dream of gardens in the desert sand
    I wake in pain
    I dream of love as time runs through my hand
    Sweet desert rose
    Each of her veils, a secret promise
    This desert flower
    No sweet perfume ever tortured me more than this
    Sweet desert rose
    This memory of Eden haunts us all
    This desert flower, this rare perfume
    Is the sweet intoxication of the fall
     
    #1
  2. ShinChan

    ShinChan Gone. For. Good.

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    Gimmick Infringement....! :p

    Nopes, just kidding. Loved this poem, buddy.
     
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  3. Spidey

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    "The American Night" by Jim Morrison

    for leather accrues
    The miracle of the streets
    The scents & smogs &
    pollens of existence

    Shiny blackness
    so totally naked she was
    Totally un-hung-up

    We looked around
    lights now on
    Top see our fellow travellers
    ~~~

    I am troubled
    Immeasurably
    By your eyes

    I am struck
    By the feather
    of your soft
    Reply

    The sound of glass
    Speaks quick
    Disdain

    And conceals
    What your eyes fight
    To explain
    ~~~

    She looked so sad in sleep
    Like a friendly hand
    just out of reach
    A candle stranded on
    a beach
    While the sun sinks low
    an H-bomb in reverse
    ~~~

    Everything human
    is leaving
    her face

    Soon she will disappear
    into the calm
    vegetable
    morass

    Stay!

    My Wild Love!
    ~~~

    I get my best ideas when the
    telephone rings & rings. It’s no fun
    To feel like a fool-when your
    baby’s gone. A new ax to my head:
    Possession. I create my own sword
    of Damascus. I’ve done nothing w/time.
    A little tot prancing the boards playing
    w/Revolution. When out there the
    World awaits & abounds w/heavy gangs
    of murderers & real madmen. Hanging
    from windows as if to say: I’m bold-
    do you love me? Just for tonight.
    A One Night Stand. A dog howls & whines
    at the glass sliding door (why can’t I
    be in there?) A cat yowls. A car engine
    revs & races against the grain- dry
    rasping carbon protest. I put the book
    down- & begin my own book.
    Love for the fat girl.
    When will SHE get here?
    ~~~

    In the gloom
    In the shady living room
    where we lived & died
    & laughed & cried
    & the pride of our relationship
    took hold that summer
    What a trip
    To hold your hand
    & tell the cops
    you’re not 16
    no runaway
    The wino left a little in
    the old blue desert
    bottle
    Cattle skulls
    the cliche of rats
    who skim the trees
    in search of fat
    Hip children invade the grounds
    & sleep in the wet grass
    ’til the dogs rush out
    I’m going South!
     
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  4. Spidey

    Spidey Should've Reinstated The Fox
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    Since even short stories are a bit too much for the word counter on here, I've decided to make a Top Five Short Stories that I have enjoyed lately. May rank them later, but for now they aren't in any order of favorites. Just a list of those I read in the past couple of weeks.




    1. "The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber" by Ernest Hemingway

    2. "The Birthmark" by Nathaniel Hawthorne

    3. "The Lottery" by Shirley Jackson

    4. "Popsy" by Stephen King

    5. "Here There Be Tygers" by Stephen King

    I'm a little on a King kick right now, at least for his short stories. Included "Here There Be Tygers" because I find it fascinating that this was one of King's first stories. He had written it while still in high school. "Popsy" was just a fascinating tale of perhaps the most cliched monster in all of horror. It does something new, and is highly underrated. I'll leave the avid reader to discover what it is for themselves.

    The other three are of course classics and if you haven't read them, you're doing yourself a disservice.



    There's a good chance I'll do this with novels, novellas, flash fiction and other forms of writing as well.
     
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  5. enviousdominous

    enviousdominous Behold my diction

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    My favorite short story of all time. In the very brief, six or so, pages that this story covers, you'll be given one of the most haunting endings you'll ever read.

    The entire story can be read here. It's amazing to me that such a compelling story was written in 1890, and I can tell where parts of this story were repurposed for certain blockbuster films.
     
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  6. Spidey

    Spidey Should've Reinstated The Fox
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    That's actually a brilliant idea to link a few stories that are in public domain. I'll keep that in mind.

    And I've read Occurrence at Owl Creek back in Middle School. Probably the first short story I read that had a twist ending. Well worth skimming over.
     
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  7. Spidey

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    "Last Song" by Jason Webley

    One day,
    The snow began to fall,
    And slowly, inch by inch,
    Covered up the earth.
    'Til finally,
    The top of the tallest building,
    Was lost beneath a powdered sea,
    As quiet as a shadow's grave.

    And we say that the world isn't dying.
    And we pray that the world isn't dying.
    And just maybe the world isn't dying.
    Maybe she's heavy with child.

    One night,
    A woman took my hand.
    I left my home and followed her
    Into an icy field.
    When I wanted to go back,
    I'd lost the way.
    So she beckoned me to lie beneath
    The stone that always bore my name.

    One morning,
    We woke up in an alley.
    To the smell of urine, alcohol,
    Trash and gasoline,
    With a dim sense of a notion
    We'd held something in our hands,
    That was bigger than us or God,
    And we can never touch again.

    I've been looking at the symptoms for a while,
    Maybe she's heavy with child.
     
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  8. Spidey

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    "Red Rain" by Peter Gabriel

    red rain is coming down
    red rain
    red rain is pouring down
    pouring down all over me

    I am standing up at the water's edge in my dream
    I cannot make a single sound as you scream
    it can't be that cold, the ground is still warm to touch
    this place is so quiet, sensing that storm

    red rain is coming down
    red rain
    red rain is pouring down
    pouring down all over me

    well I've seen them buried in a sheltered place in this town
    they tell you that this rain can sting, and look down
    there is no blood around see no sign of pain
    hay ay ay no pain
    seeing no red at all, see no rain

    red rain is coming down
    red rain
    red rain is pouring down
    pouring down all over me

    red rain
    putting the pressure on much harder now
    to return again and again
    just let the red rain splash you
    let the rain fall on your skin
    I come to you defences down
    with the trust of a child

    red rain is coming down
    red rain
    red rain is pouring down
    pouring down all over me
    and I can't watch any more
    no more denial
    it's so hard to lay down in all of this
    red rain is coming down
    red rain is pouring down
    red rain is coming down all over me
    I see it
    red rain is coming down
    red rain is pouring down
    red rain is coming down all over me
    I'm bathing in it
    red rain coming down
    red rain is coming down
    red rain is coming down all over me
    I'm begging you
    red rain coming down
    red rain coming down
    red rain coming down
    red rain coming down
    over me in the red red sea
    over me
    over me
    red rain
     
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  9. enviousdominous

    enviousdominous Behold my diction

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    Lovecraft is essential for fans of short stories. I prefer "The Temple" because it focuses on the conversations a high ranking German military officer has in his head. It's therefore less about all the fun associations we tend to make with the Lovecraft mythos. The Temple can be read here, and I'll admit that it's a bit of an acquired taste.
     
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  10. Spidey

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    "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" by Dylan Thomas

    Do not go gentle into that good night,
    Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
    Because their words had forked no lightning they
    Do not go gentle into that good night.

    Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
    Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
    And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
    Do not go gentle into that good night.

    Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
    Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

    And you, my father, there on the sad height,
    Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
    Do not go gentle into that good night.
    Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
     
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  11. Spidey

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    "New Americana" by Halsey

    Cigarettes and tiny liquor bottles
    Just what you'd expect inside her new Balenciaga
    Vile romance, turned dreams into an empire
    Self made success now she woes with Rockefellers

    Survival of the richest
    The city's ours until the fall
    They're Monaco and Hamptons bound
    But we don't feel like outsiders at all

    We are the new Americana
    High on legal marijuana
    Raised on Biggie and Nirvana
    We are the new Americana

    Young James Dean, some say
    He looks just like his father
    But he could never love somebody's daughter
    Football team loved more than just the game
    So he vowed to be his husband at the alter

    Survival of the richest
    The city's ours until the fall
    They're Monaco and Hamptons bound
    But we don't feel like outsiders at all

    We are the new Americana
    High on legal marijuana
    Raised on Biggie and Nirvana
    We are the new Americana

    We know very well who we are
    So we hold it down when summer starts
    What kind of dough have you been spending
    What kind of bubblegum have you been blowing lately

    We are the new Americana
    High on legal marijuana
    Raised on Biggie and Nirvana
    We are the new Americana

    We are the new Americana
    High on legal marijuana
    Raised on Biggie and Nirvana
    We are the new Americana
     
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  12. Spidey

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    "I Know a Man" by Robert Creeley

    As I sd to my
    friend, because I am
    always talking,—John, I

    sd, which was not his
    name, the darkness sur-
    rounds us, what

    can we do against
    it, or else, shall we &
    why not, buy a goddamn big car,

    drive, he sd, for
    christ’s sake, look
    out where yr going.
     
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  13. Spidey

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    "O Captain! My Captain!" by Walt Whitman

    O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
    The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
    The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
    While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
    But O heart! heart! heart!
    O the bleeding drops of red,
    Where on the deck my Captain lies,
    Fallen cold and dead. ​

    O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
    Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
    For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
    For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
    Here Captain! dear father!
    This arm beneath your head!
    It is some dream that on the deck,
    You’ve fallen cold and dead. ​

    My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,
    My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,
    The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,
    From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
    Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
    But I with mournful tread,
    Walk the deck my Captain lies,
    Fallen cold and dead.​
     
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  14. Spidey

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    "Eldorado" by Edgar Allan Poe

    Gaily bedight,
    A gallant knight,
    In sunshine and in shadow,
    Had journeyed long,
    Singing a song,
    In search of Eldorado.

    But he grew old—
    This knight so bold—
    And o’er his heart a shadow—
    Fell as he found
    No spot of ground
    That looked like Eldorado.

    And, as his strength
    Failed him at length,
    He met a pilgrim shadow—
    ‘Shadow,’ said he,
    ‘Where can it be—
    This land of Eldorado?’

    ‘Over the Mountains
    Of the Moon,
    Down the Valley of the Shadow,
    Ride, boldly ride,’
    The shade replied,—
    ‘If you seek for Eldorado!’
     
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  15. Spidey

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    "Ordinary Day" by Dolores O'Riordan

    This is just an ordinary day
    Wipe the insecurities away
    I can see that the darkness will erode
    Looking out the corner of my eye
    I can see that the sunshine will explode
    Far across the desert in the sky
    Beautiful girl
    Won't you be my inspiration?
    Beautiful girl
    Don't you throw your love around
    What in the world, what in the world
    Could ever come between us?
    Beautiful girl, beautiful girl
    I'll never let you down
    Won't let you down
    This is the beginning of your day
    Life is more intricate than it seems
    Always be yourself along the way
    Living through the spirit of your dreams
    Beautiful girl
    Won't you be my inspiration?
    Beautiful girl
    Don't you throw your love around
    What in the world, what in the world
    Could ever come between us?
    Beautiful girl, beautiful girl
    I'll never let you down
    Won't let you down
    Down, down
     
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  16. Spidey

    Spidey Should've Reinstated The Fox
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    Top 5 Short Stories I've Read In The Past Few Weeks:

    1. "The Necklace" or "The Diamond Necklace" by Guy de Maupassant (link here)

    2."What You Pawn I Will Redeem" by Sherman Alexie

    3."Recitatif" by Toni Morrison

    4."Candide" by Voltaire

    5."Hunters In The Snow" by Tobias Wolff


    I have shared a link for only one of these stories because it's the only one I know for sure that's in the public domain (Candide gets a pass because technically it's a novella). Don't want to share anything on this site that could constitute as advertising of course. I implore anybody to try and find these short stories on their own, as a couple I've mentioned I looked up and could find immediately.

    No boogeymen in this list, but all of them share monsters of some sort. Each story is jam packed with what it means to be human, and explore such problems as race, religion, love, hate, etc. In fact peering over this list now it makes me more comfortable to say that these stories are the pinnacle of realism. If you're tired of vampires and perfect horny rich men, they're all worth a peek.
     
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  17. Spidey

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    "The Cave" by Mumford and Sons

    It's empty in the valley of your heart
    The sun, it rises slowly as you walk
    Away from all the fears
    And all the faults you've left behind

    The harvest left no food for you to eat
    You cannibal, you meat-eater, you see
    But I have seen the same
    I know the shame in your defeat

    But I will hold on hope
    And I won't let you choke
    On the noose around your neck

    And I'll find strength in pain
    And I will change my ways
    I'll know my name as it's called again

    'Cause I have other things to fill my time
    You take what is yours and I'll take mine
    Now let me at the truth
    Which will refresh my broken mind

    So tie me to a post and block my ears
    I can see widows and orphans through my tears
    I know my call despite my faults
    And despite my growing fears

    But I will hold on hope
    And I won't let you choke
    On the noose around your neck

    And I'll find strength in pain
    And I will change my ways
    I'll know my name as it's called again

    So come out of your cave walking on your hands
    And see the world hanging upside down
    You can understand dependence
    When you know the maker's hand

    So make your siren's call
    And sing all you want
    I will not hear what you have to say

    'Cause I need freedom now
    And I need to know how
    To live my life as it's meant to be

    And I will hold on hope
    And I won't let you choke
    On the noose around your neck

    And I'll find strength in pain
    And I will change my ways
    I'll know my name as it's called again
     
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  18. Spidey

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    "Moon River" by Audrey Hepburn

    Moon River
    Wider than a mile
    I'm crossin' you in style
    Some day
    Old dream maker
    You heart breaker
    Wherever you're goin'
    I'm goin' your way
    Two drifters
    Off to see the world
    There's such a lot of world
    To see
    We're after the same
    Rainbow's end
    Waitin' round the bend
    My huckleberry friend
    Moon River
    and me
     
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  19. Spidey

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    "Thou Shalt Not Kill" by Kenneth Rexroth

    I
    They are murdering all the young men.
    For half a century now, every day,
    They have hunted them down and killed them.
    They are killing them now.
    At this minute, all over the world,
    They are killing the young men.
    They know ten thousand ways to kill them.
    Every year they invent new ones.
    In the jungles of Africa,
    In the marshes of Asia,
    In the deserts of Asia,
    In the slave pens of Siberia,
    In the slums of Europe,
    In the nightclubs of America,
    The murderers are at work.


    They are stoning Stephen,
    They are casting him forth from every city in the world.
    Under the Welcome sign,
    Under the Rotary emblem,
    On the highway in the suburbs,
    His body lies under the hurling stones.
    He was full of faith and power.
    He did great wonders among the people.
    They could not stand against his wisdom.
    They could not bear the spirit with which he spoke.
    He cried out in the name
    Of the tabernacle of witness in the wilderness.
    They were cut to the heart.
    They gnashed against him with their teeth.
    They cried out with a loud voice.
    They stopped their ears.
    They ran on him with one accord.
    They cast him out of the city and stoned him.
    The witnesses laid down their clothes
    At the feet of a man whose name was your name—
    You.


    You are the murderer.
    You are killing the young men.
    You are broiling Lawrence on his gridiron.
    When you demanded he divulge
    The hidden treasures of the spirit,
    He showed you the poor.
    You set your heart against him.
    You seized him and bound him with rage.
    You roasted him on a slow fire.
    His fat dripped and spurted in the flame.
    The smell was sweet to your nose.
    He cried out,
    “I am cooked on this side,
    Turn me over and eat,
    You
    Eat of my flesh.”


    You are murdering the young men.
    You are shooting Sebastian with arrows.
    He kept the faithful steadfast under persecution.
    First you shot him with arrows.
    Then you beat him with rods.
    Then you threw him in a sewer.
    You fear nothing more than courage.
    You who turn away your eyes
    At the bravery of the young men.


    You,
    The hyena with polished face and bow tie,
    In the office of a billion dollar
    Corporation devoted to service;
    The vulture dripping with carrion,
    Carefully and carelessly robed in imported tweeds,
    Lecturing on the Age of Abundance;
    The jackal in double-breasted gabardine,
    Barking by remote control,
    In the United Nations;
    The vampire bat seated at the couch head,
    Notebook in hand, toying with his decerebrator;
    The autonomous, ambulatory cancer,
    The Superego in a thousand uniforms;
    You, the finger man of behemoth,
    The murderer of the young men.

    II
    What happened to Robinson,
    Who used to stagger down Eighth Street,
    Dizzy with solitary gin?
    Where is Masters, who crouched in
    His law office for ruinous decades?
    Where is Leonard who thought he was
    A locomotive? And Lindsay,
    Wise as a dove, innocent
    As a serpent, where is he?
    Timor mortis conturbat me.


    What became of Jim Oppenheim?
    Lola Ridge alone in an
    Icy furnished room? Orrick Johns,
    Hopping into the surf on his
    One leg? Elinor Wylie
    Who leaped like Kierkegaard?
    Sara Teasdale, where is she?
    Timor mortis conturbat me.


    Where is George Sterling, that tame fawn?
    Phelps Putnam who stole away?
    Jack Wheelwright who couldn’t cross the bridge?
    Donald Evans with his cane and
    Monocle, where is he?
    Timor mortis conturbat me.


    John Gould Fletcher who could not
    Unbreak his powerful heart?
    Bodenheim butchered in stinking
    Squalor? Edna Millav who took
    Her last straight whiskey? Genevieve
    Who loved so much; where is she?
    Timor mortis conturbat me.


    Harry who didn’t care at all?
    Hart who went back to the sea?
    Timor mortis conturbat me.


    Where is Sol Funaroff?
    What happened to Potamkin?
    Isidor Schneider? Claude McKay?
    Countee Cullen? Clarence Weinstock?
    Who animates their corpses today?
    Timor mortis conturbat me.


    Where is Ezra, that noisy man?
    Where is Larsson whose poems were prayers?
    Where is Charles Snider, that gentle
    Bitter boy? Carnevali,
    What became of him?
    Carol who was so beautiful, where is she?
    Timor mortis conturbat me.

    III
    Was their end noble and tragic,
    Like the mask of a tyrant?
    Like Agamemnon’s secret golden face?
    Indeed it was not. Up all night
    In the fo’c’sle, bemused and beaten,
    Bleeding at the rectum, in his
    Pocket a review by the one
    Colleague he respected, “If he
    Really means what these poems
    Pretend to say, he has only
    One way out—.” Into the
    Hot acrid Caribbean sun,
    Into the acrid, transparent,
    Smoky sea. Or another, lice in his
    Armpits and crotch, garbage littered
    On the floor, gray greasy rags on
    The bed. “I killed them because they
    Were dirty, stinking Communists.
    I should get a medal.” Again,
    Another, Simenon foretold,
    His end at a glance. “I dare you
    To pull the trigger.” She shut her eyes
    And spilled gin over her dress.
    The pistol wobbled in his hand.
    It took them hours to die.
    Another threw herself downstairs,
    And broke her back. It took her years.
    Two put their heads under water
    In the bath and filled their lungs.
    Another threw himself under
    The traffic of a crowded bridge.
    Another, drunk, jumped from a
    Balcony and broke her neck.
    Another soaked herself in
    Gasoline and ran blazing
    Into the street and lived on
    In custody. One made love
    Only once with a beggar woman.
    He died years later of syphilis
    Of the brain and spine. Fifteen
    Years of pain and poverty,
    While his mind leaked away.
    One tried three times in twenty years
    To drown himself. The last time
    He succeeded. One turned on the gas
    When she had no more food, no more
    Money, and only half a lung.
    One went up to Harlem, took on
    Thirty men, came home and
    Cut her throat. One sat up all night
    Talking to H. L. Mencken and
    Drowned himself in the morning.
    How many stopped writing at thirty?
    How many went to work for Time?
    How many died of prefrontal
    Lobotomies in the Communist Party?
    How many arc lost in the back wards
    Of provincial madhouses?
    How many on the advice of
    Their psychoanalysts, decided
    A business career was best after all?
    How many are hopeless alcoholics?
    René Crevel!
    Jacques Rigaud!
    Antonin Artaud!
    Mayakofsky!
    Essenin!
    Robert Desnos!
    Saint Pol Roux!
    Max Jacob!
    All over the world
    The same disembodied hand
    Strikes us down.
    Here is a mountain of death.
    A hill of heads like the Khans piled up.
    The first-born of a century
    Slaughtered by Herod.
    Three generations of infants
    Stuffed down the maw of Moloch.

    IV
    He is dead.
    The bird of Rhiannon.
    He is dead.
    In the winter of the heart.
    He is Dead.
    In the canyons of death,
    They found him dumb at last,
    In the blizzard of lies.
    He never spoke again.
    He died.
    He is dead.
    In their antiseptic hands,
    He is dead.
    The little spellbinder of Cader Idris.
    He is dead.
    The sparrow of Cardiff.
    He is dead.
    The canary of Swansea.
    Who killed him?
    Who killed the bright-headed bird?
    You did, you son of a bitch.
    You drowned him in your cocktail brain.
    He fell down and died in your synthetic heart.
    You killed him,
    Oppenheimer the Million-Killer,
    You killed him,
    Einstein the Gray Eminence.
    You killed him,
    Havanahavana, with your Nobel Prize.
    You killed him, General,
    Through the proper channels.
    You strangled him, Le Mouton,
    With your mains étendues.
    He confessed in open court to a pince-nezed skull.
    You shot him in the back of the head
    As he stumbled in the last cellar.
    You killed him,
    Benign Lady on the postage stamp.
    He was found dead at a Liberal Weekly luncheon.
    He was found dead on the cutting room floor.
    He was found dead at a Time policy conference.
    Henry Luce killed him with a telegram to the Pope.
    Mademoiselle strangled him with a padded brassiere.
    Old Possum sprinkled him with a tea ball.
    After the wolves were done, the vaticides
    Crawled off with his bowels to their classrooms and quarterlies.
    When the news came over the radio
    You personally rose up shouting, “Give us Barabbas!”
    In your lonely crowd you swept over him.
    Your custom-built brogans and your ballet slippers
    Pummeled him to death in the gritty street.
    You hit him with an album of Hindemith.
    You stabbed him with stainless steel by Isamu Noguchi,
    He is dead.
    He is Dead.
    Like Ignacio the bullfighter,
    At four o’clock in the afternoon.
    At precisely four o’clock.
    I too do not want to hear it.
    I too do not want to know it.
    I want to run into the street,
    Shouting, “Remember Vanzetti!”
    I want to pour gasoline down your chimneys.
    I want to blow up your galleries.
    I want to burn down your editorial offices.
    I want to slit the bellies of your frigid women.
    I want to sink your sailboats and launches.
    I want to strangle your children at their finger paintings.
    I want to poison your Afghans and poodles.
    He is dead, the little drunken cherub.
    He is dead,
    The effulgent tub thumper.
    He is Dead.
    The ever living birds are not singing
    To the head of Bran.
    The sea birds are still
    Over Bardsey of Ten Thousand Saints.
    The underground men are not singing
    On their way to work.
    There is a smell of blood
    In the smell of the turf smoke.
    They have struck him down,
    The son of David ap Gwilym.
    They have murdered him,
    The Baby of Taliessin.
    There he lies dead,
    By the Iceberg of the United Nations.
    There he lies sandbagged,
    At the foot of the Statue of Liberty.
    The Gulf Stream smells of blood
    As it breaks on the sand of Iona
    And the blue rocks of Canarvon.
    And all the birds of the deep sea rise up
    Over the luxury liners and scream,
    “You killed him! You killed him.
    In your God damned Brooks Brothers suit,
    You son of a bitch.”
     
    #19
  20. Spidey

    Spidey Should've Reinstated The Fox
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    "The Future" by Leonard Cohen

    Give me back my broken night
    my mirrored room, my secret life
    it's lonely here,
    there's no one left to torture
    Give me absolute control
    over every living soul
    And lie beside me, baby,
    that's an order!
    Give me crack and anal sex
    Take the only tree that's left
    and stuff it up the hole
    in your culture
    Give me back the Berlin wall
    give me Stalin and St Paul
    I've seen the future, brother:
    it is murder.

    Things are going to slide, slide in all directions
    Won't be nothing
    Nothing you can measure anymore
    The blizzard, the blizzard of the world
    has crossed the threshold
    and it has overturned
    the order of the soul
    When they said REPENT REPENT
    I wonder what they meant
    When they said REPENT REPENT
    I wonder what they meant
    When they said REPENT REPENT
    I wonder what they meant

    You don't know me from the wind
    you never will, you never did
    I'm the little jew
    who wrote the Bible
    I've seen the nations rise and fall
    I've heard their stories, heard them all
    but love's the only engine of survival
    Your servant here, he has been told
    to say it clear, to say it cold:
    It's over, it ain't going
    any further
    And now the wheels of heaven stop
    you feel the devil's riding crop
    Get ready for the future:
    it is murder

    Things are going to slide ...

    There'll be the breaking of the ancient
    western code
    Your private life will suddenly explode
    There'll be phantoms
    There'll be fires on the road
    and the white man dancing
    You'll see a woman
    hanging upside down
    her features covered by her fallen gown
    and all the lousy little poets
    coming round
    tryin' to sound like Charlie Manson
    and the white man dancin'

    Give me back the Berlin wall
    Give me Stalin and St Paul
    Give me Christ
    or give me Hiroshima
    Destroy another fetus now
    We don't like children anyhow
    I've seen the future, baby:
    it is murder

    Things are going to slide ...

    When they said REPENT REPENT ...
     
    #20
  21. Spidey

    Spidey Should've Reinstated The Fox
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    "Let America Be America Again" by Langston Hughes

    Let America be America again.
    Let it be the dream it used to be.
    Let it be the pioneer on the plain
    Seeking a home where he himself is free.

    (America never was America to me.)

    Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed—
    Let it be that great strong land of love
    Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
    That any man be crushed by one above.

    (It never was America to me.)

    O, let my land be a land where Liberty
    Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
    But opportunity is real, and life is free,
    Equality is in the air we breathe.

    (There’s never been equality for me,
    Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)

    Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
    And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

    I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
    I am the Negro bearing slavery’s scars.
    I am the red man driven from the land,
    I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek—
    And finding only the same old stupid plan
    Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

    I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
    Tangled in that ancient endless chain
    Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
    Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
    Of work the men! Of take the pay!
    Of owning everything for one’s own greed!

    I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
    I am the worker sold to the machine.
    I am the Negro, servant to you all.
    I am the people, humble, hungry, mean—
    Hungry yet today despite the dream.
    Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers!
    I am the man who never got ahead,
    The poorest worker bartered through the years.

    Yet I’m the one who dreamt our basic dream
    In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
    Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
    That even yet its mighty daring sings
    In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
    That’s made America the land it has become.
    O, I’m the man who sailed those early seas
    In search of what I meant to be my home—
    For I’m the one who left dark Ireland’s shore,
    And Poland’s plain, and England’s grassy lea,
    And torn from Black Africa’s strand I came
    To build a “homeland of the free.”

    The free?

    Who said the free? Not me?
    Surely not me? The millions on relief today?
    The millions shot down when we strike?
    The millions who have nothing for our pay?
    For all the dreams we’ve dreamed
    And all the songs we’ve sung
    And all the hopes we’ve held
    And all the flags we’ve hung,
    The millions who have nothing for our pay—
    Except the dream that’s almost dead today.

    O, let America be America again—
    The land that never has been yet—
    And yet must be—the land where every man is free.
    The land that’s mine—the poor man’s, Indian’s, Negro’s, ME—
    Who made America,
    Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
    Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
    Must bring back our mighty dream again.

    Sure, call me any ugly name you choose—
    The steel of freedom does not stain.
    From those who live like leeches on the people’s lives,
    We must take back our land again,
    America!

    O, yes,
    I say it plain,
    America never was America to me,
    And yet I swear this oath—
    America will be!

    Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
    The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
    We, the people, must redeem
    The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
    The mountains and the endless plain—
    All, all the stretch of these great green states—
    And make America again!
     
    #21
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  22. Spidey

    Spidey Should've Reinstated The Fox
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    "She Walks In Beauty" by Lord Byron

    1

    She walks in beauty, like the night
    Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
    And all that's best of dark and bright
    Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
    Thus mellowed to that tender light
    Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

    2

    One shade the more, one ray the less,
    Had half impaired the nameless grace
    Which waves in every raven tress,
    Or softly lightens o'er her face;
    Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
    How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

    3

    And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
    So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
    The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
    But tell of days in goodness spent,
    A mind at peace with all below,
    A heart whose love is innocent!
     
    #22
  23. enviousdominous

    enviousdominous Behold my diction

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    One of the few things I truly love in this world is discovering an art-form that can seem simple, only to defeat me with what turns out to be its complexity and eventually earn my respect when I spend the time needed to satisfactorily figure it out.

    When I read "The King in Yellow" by Robert William Chambers (which can be read here) as a young kid, I was pretty befuddled.

    I made a few mistakes, one was reading as though the author, and not the main characters, was the perspective that was attempting to convey information to me. I had to consider that the characters were testifying unto their experiences, which thankfully included the appeals of other characters in regard to what may have really been going on.

    Another mistake I made was assuming that what would be explained would be entirely factual, because it would be silly to mislead the reader. Again, I was placing emphasis on the reputation of the author and not on the reputation of the character.

    What I love most about The King in Yellow is that I had to read it multiple times to truly understand what was happening, and on top of that I grew more interested in the book the more times I read it. I admit that I have always had a pathetically short attention span, so it's no small accolade for a book to be able to make me want to read it multiple times.
     
    #23
  24. enviousdominous

    enviousdominous Behold my diction

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    I enjoy finding answers to the question of "What inspired this?"

    One consistent crux of philosophical mental meanderings is the idea of character being more powerful than physical dominance, and the many fun ways that can be rehashed.

    Seneca the Younger once mused "I do not distinguish by the eye, but by the mind, which is the proper judge of the man". This quote was made shortly after The Gregorian Calendar acknowledges that Jesus Christ was born, and is the earliest credible example I've found showing someone stating that a virtuous identity is more indicative of worth than a powerful physical presence.

    A slightly less obscure 18th century philosopher known as Isaac Watts elaborated on this idea by penning this poem:

    Were I so tall to reach the pole,
    Or grasp the ocean with my span,
    I must be measured by my soul;
    The mind's the standard of the man

    That poem can be easily lost within the mountain of inspirational quotes that are attributed to Isaac Watts, but it's powerful to me for a personal reason. I've always been fascinated by the idea of being able to learn to not be so obsessed with physical beauty, which seems to be a very natural obsession.

    A man known as Joseph Merrick to friends and family, and known as The Elephant Man to most everyone else who's been made aware of his existence, adapted his studies of philosophy into his own unique perspective on the physical world. Anyone who would pay to stare in horror at his physical frame would be presented with a brochure before hand, and on that brochure was this poem created by Joseph Merrick:

    Tis true, my form is something odd
    but blaming me, is blaming God,
    Could I create myself anew
    I would not fail in pleasing you.
     
    #24
  25. Spidey

    Spidey Should've Reinstated The Fox
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    I've been sick the past few weeks with a cold, so I haven't been the avid reader I usually am. I do recommend a few books though for those looking for a fresh experience.

    I'm talking about visual literature. Not visual novels (that gets its own category one day), but the books that use imagery in a very interesting way. These are not short stories, and I don't know any poetry off the top of my head that fits in with what I'm talking about. But you guys are more than welcome to either look these three books up and/or grab a copy at your closest bookstore.


    1. "The Unfinished Life of Addison Stone" by Adele Griffin: If you're a fan of Lana Del Rey, and want to see the rise and fall of the Manic Pixie Dream Girl trope, than do yourself a favor and read this. It uses paintings, photographs, etc in a very real manner and you will wonder to yourself if you're reading an autobiography or not. Excellent novel.

    2. "House of Leaves" by Mark Z. Danielewski: Admittedly I am not finished with this book, but from the get-go it hits you that this is not an average horror story. It will twist and change words around on you. It will make them different colors. It will legit fuck with you. It's exciting. This may deserve a full review one of these days, but I can only comment on what I've read so far, and it does several visual things a book never does.

    3. "Chopsticks" by Jessica Anthony & Rodrigo Corral: This may be my favorite of the three due to how subtle the mystery is. Read it once and you're under the impression it's a normal lovesick story. Read it again and you'll know it's a psychological thriller. Did I mention there are no words to this story? Like no narrative whatsoever. The reader is given images and must follow along to the best of their ability. A story you can't breeze through at all, as every page is a small puzzle you're forced to piece together.
     
    #25

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